


Burnmarked

by innerglow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, Depression, Graphic Description, M/M, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 01:51:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innerglow/pseuds/innerglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re Sam Winchester. The boy born with flames in his veins, burning everything that’s ever been in your wake...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burnmarked

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd. all mistakes are my own. 
> 
> this is written as prose, more than it is standard fiction.  
> it is also the beginning of longer fic, that is in the works. 
> 
> [Burnmarked on Tumblr](http://burnmarked.tumblr.com) for more inspiration posts from this verse.

Your earliest memories are littered with memories of cold sheets and a sinking weight in your stomach. You used to toss and turn in your sleep and wake with the taste of a nightmare on your tongue, but couldn’t remember why it tasted more like a memory. You remember wishing you were dead long before you hit the age of 10. And you can’t remember why, but on some level you’ve always known that you carry a darkness inside of you. One that it might be best if it was put out, long before it could ever catch fire. 

But it caught fire. You’ve always been the fuel to the flames. 

You wish you could say that you remembered your mom tucking you into bed. Wish you could remember her pink lips gently pressed against your forehead as she whispered, ‘goodnight’. But these are things that don’t belong to you. The fire in your veins made sure of it. 

And you look at your Brother and you see the lines of grief across his face. The uncried tears, so evident there, they’re like stone statues that memorialize the things you stole from him. The tears he wasn’t allowed to shed because you were placed in his arms and was told to run. To run and never look back—even as the fire in your veins burned the last shreds of his innocence away.

You look at your Brother and you feel guilt in the vastness of your bones, because he has never looked back.  He’s only ever looked for you. You don’t deserve him, you never have. And that’s why at the ripe age of 17, you made a decision that you’re entire family despised you for. But it was for the best. At least that’s what you told him when he asked you ‘why?’ with confusion lit in his eyes. 

He let it go, but he eventually asked you what you had meant by ‘it’s for the best’.  And you felt your tongue crawl its way into the back of your throat with shame, because how do you tell him that it’s because you need more? How do you tell someone who has given you every single free part of themselves, that you want more? That you have a space inside you that only he can fill? 

And when you got on that bus, you still didn’t tell him the truth. You left with that ‘I’m in love with you’ still tattooed on the inside of your lips. You couldn’t ask for more. You needed to leave. It was for the best. At least that’s what you told yourself over and over again as the mile markers passed and divided across state lines. 

You didn’t see or hear from him for a few years after that. You fell in love with a girl, with blonde hair and green eyes. And you told yourself this was just a coincidence and not because you sought them out—because you missed the ones that meant ‘home’ to you. And you could convince yourself on most days that you were happy, but you still woke with nightmares that tasted like memories in the morning. 

You just can’t shake some things.  If you only knew how true that was, back then.  Back when you ignored the fire that raged in your veins.

It wasn’t until you saw the worst thing you’ve ever seen in your life, that something inside of you snaps and breaks off. You think about all the blood and guts you’ve seen you’re entire life, but nothing could have ever prepared you for that moment. Of having green eyes and blonde hair pinned to the ceiling above you, her body combusting and breaking apart as she mouthed, ‘i love you’.

That was the moment you realized why those nightmares always felt like memories. Because for the second time in your life, the fire in your veins consumed the things you tried desperately to hold onto. And for the second time in your life, your Brother carried you from blazing flames you’ve caused. 

He still wasn’t looking back. Still looking for you, even after all that time. And you felt even more undeserving, because you loved another and you told yourself it was for the best. But that person is ash and bone, with the whisper of a love you never quite returned fully, still resting upon her lips. 

It wasn’t for the best. The hungry fire in your eyes told you that much. 

And now you look at yourself and you hate what you see; you hate it so much you want to rip yourself apart. You want to pull the flesh from your bones and you want to eat it yourself, so you can taste their screams—so you can digest the darkness inside of you. But you know that will do no good.  

The flame itches inside of you and you are so tired of trying not to scratch it. So tired of denying the filth that breathes inside of you. And your Brother looks at you like he’s worried; as though you’re gonna break or maybe consume him too.

He’s still looking for you.  Still isn’t looking back.  And you want to tell him to look away, to close his eyes—if he isn’t careful you’re gonna burn him too. You’re gonna burn the only thing that has ever truly belonged to you and what happens then? What happens when he can’t carry you? And you know the answers to those questions, but you refuse to answer them. Instead, you push him away. 

He thinks it’s because you need time, so he gives you time—but he sneaks looks at you and it makes the itch inside of you intensify. It screams within you and you ball your fists and you bite your lip, but it grows instead of dissipating. You pace back and forth, wearing holes in the carpets of random hotel rooms and your leg shakes all the time because the fire inside of you is calling your name, calling you—always calling you. 

You find yourself in a hotel room on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon and you think about the things you caused. You think about fires, a drunken father, and a brother who doesn’t know how to tie his shoes without you by his side. And maybe you don’t know how to tie your own without him either, maybe it’s more than that—maybe you don’t know how to be without him at all.  It scares you how much you need him. The lust in your gut never faded, it only ever bold and italicized itself instead. 

You’re so tired. The dark circles that carve themselves under your eyes tell stories that you can’t even begin to vocalize. How could you? Nothing you say could ever scratch the surface of the things you’ve caused—of the ways you feel. And the fire it’s raging inside of you, it’s screaming and it’s pleading for you to do something—anything. 

So you do. You decide that the only thing that can silence the fire within, is to set fire to yourself, to burn yourself before you can burn someone else. And you think of Dean as you light the first match, staring at the power of the flame-like ballerina dancing on the end of the stick.

'This is for you.' you find yourself whispering as you press the fire against the skin of your wrist. And the instant it licks your flesh, your insides quiver from the pain of it.  A yelp lays quietly upon your lips as you press it closer and feel the itch in your veins ease.

It’s intoxicating, almost pleasurable to be released of that constant itch in your veins. And as your skin bubbles and swells with violation, your mouth turns up at the corners and the darkness fades in your eyes.

When you’ve worked yourself a nice little souvenir, you press your fingers against it—making it scream loudly.  Your knees get wobbly from the wave of pain, but when it’s gone you stand straighter then you have in years.  

You go to bed that night and you actually sleep for the first time in what feels like your entire life. Nightmares don’t creep in and the fire in your veins is just smoke.  The burn on your wrist throbs and aches, protesting the sleeve pressed tightly against it.  But it’s comforting. You can’t quite explain how, but it gives you peace and you’re so goddamned thankful for it. 

In the morning when you’re Brother looks at you, you smile back at him. It catches him off guard and he smiles for the first time in months. And when he looks at you, you welcome it. You hug him in the middle of the hotel room and you thank him for everything and you mean it with every fucking fiber in your being. When his arms tighten around you, you can almost forget the pain you’ve caused. You can almost tell him that your heart is his, that it's always been his. 

But you’re not quite there yet.

Maybe when you’ve got a nice collection of marks that list the things you’re sorry for, lining your arms.  Maybe then, you’ll be worthy of wanting more. And you pray with everything that’s inside of you that when you’re ready that he’ll still be looking for you—just as he always has. 

You’re Sam Winchester. The boy born with flames in his veins, burning everything that’s ever been in your wake and for the first time in your life—you have control. 

You’re on fire and burning away.


End file.
